Despite the shield of looming darkness and rainfall, Grover felt vulnerable at this position: standing before the gates where a security camera might be aimed. He leaned down and scooted to the left, onto the grass where he hunkered down before the hedges, making his best effort to blend into the environment. Here, an awful odor rose, and he wondered if a swamp might be nearby, although it seemed unlikely in such an affluent area.
He waited, contemplating the grounds, trying to ascertain his motives for coming here. What did he expect to find? He gazed at the mansion, with its gothic architecture and flaring red lights. Dark clouds shifted ominously behind the highest point—a rounded cupola—revealing a cold slice of moon that cut through the poor weather like a failing beacon. Inside the house, the windows had been clothed over with black curtains or sheets, yellow light bleeding from the billowing edges in thin, wavering strips. Grover stayed low, listening for noise. Heard only the pelting rain, which continued to strengthen and batter. A low-lying mist seeped in from around the corners of the house. And that smell...perhaps there is a swamp around back.
He swiped his eyes with a sleeve, wondered who lived here, and why they’d come for Bev Mathers, only to leave without him. It didn’t seem to make sense—unless, of course, Bev had decided to stay home after all, as he’d indicated earlier, and at the last minute had cancelled his plans to join his rock-star chums for a party of guitar playing and pot smoking. Maybe it did make sense after all? Maybe...
But then, why were those people wearing hoods? Because they’re devil worshippers and this is where Bev Mathers comes for black mass! Herein lies the answers to the crimes!
It hadn’t started with the goat, or Jake Ritchie. There’d been ten other “sacrifices” before them, all cats or dogs left exposed in public venues so the offenders could duly make their dark statement known: an organically formed pentagram, facilitated at the scene of each crime. Soon following these sacrifices came the slaughter of the goat at the rectory. Grover took a deep breath, both concerned and frightened. The people responsible for these events had played—were still playing—a very dangerous game, one that had accelerated with the ritualistic murder of Jake Ritchie. What was next? Did it end there? Now, staring at this threatening mansion, Grover felt convinced that he’d stumbled upon a headquarters of some sort, a place where iniquities were plotted—and within dwelled those blameworthy for abhorrent crimes, both past and impending. His heart rate increased. He frowned and swallowed a dry icy lump in his throat.
Suddenly, the doors to the house opened. Yellow light spilled outside, a dark lithe figure emerging from its glare. Grover pressed back into the hedges and watched as the hooded individual slowly came down the wide porch steps and entered into the back of the limo. Another figure emerged and settled behind the limo’s wheel. With its headlights cutting into the rain and approaching fog, the limo edged around the fountain and moved slowly up the driveway, wet pavement squelching beneath its tires. Grover turned away and hid the white of his face and hands in the hedges, shivering in the cold wetness, until the limo exited the grounds. He waited, downpour pelting him, the gates humming electronically as they closed out the car. The familiar loud clacking tolled as they secured. He gazed out through a branching space in the hedges, watching with dismay as the limo turned the corner and disappeared. Picking up another member of the cult? Would there be another sacrifice tonight?
He twisted around, gazed back at the mansion, wondering if he’d been locked onto the grounds. A few moments passed, and in this time he felt no alternative but to take a closer look at the looming edifice. He stood up. Stepped away from the hedges, walking slowly—now, shrouded in near-darkness and knee-deep fog—toward the hulking residence. Nearing it, he could ascertain unclear noises behind the blockade of stone walls: a throbbing rhythmic beat, like a great heart; the errant knocking of something heavy, a mallet on wood perhaps; the tolling of a bell; the muffled voice of someone shouting.
Rain doused his body, sent a numbing chill deep into his bones. Soft grass and mud mashed beneath his feet. He angled his path toward the left side of the house where a narrow strip of lawn disappeared into an unlighted backyard surrounded by eight-foot hedges. Here the windows were also curtained over in black, many of the lights out behind them.
Suddenly, from behind, hidden in the seep of fog: the long, guttural snort of an animal.
At once, the chill of the rain seemed to amplify. It tugged at his bloodstream fiercely, like heavy icicles on an eave. Something flittering grasped at his ankles. He was startled with fear. Kicked his feet and looked down. The fog parted mysteriously. He was standing in a tall patch of weeds.
He turned. The muffled noises from within the mansion ceased abruptly. Now only the splattering rain filled his ears. That, and the unceasing growl of the unseen animal before him. A pungent stench assaulted him, and he pressed back against the slime-covered stone of the house, pulling away his fear from the glowing red eyes emerging from the fog-shrouded darkness; from the nodding bulk of a head; from the heaving body and jutting bristles of hair; from the hooves that dug madly into the mud. Here, parting the fog and ascending from the gloom, black-skinned and bleeding from its head, was a sow.
The eyes, seemingly on fire with cunning and intelligence, contemplated Grover, as the head nodded aggressively up and down and its pointed hooves slapped the wet earth. It made a harsh grunting noise. A yellowish mucous shot from its nose in a stream. Its head stilled, eyes peering at Grover.
Pressing himself against the house as hard as possible, Grover shooed the large animal, but to no benefit. The thing was immense—the size of a small cow; aren’t pigs supposed to be small and pink and cute?, he thought idiotically. The animal continued snorting and galloping in place, inching closer and closer, discharging a mound of dark bowels, the immediate stench slamming Grover in the face like an explosion.
“Git!” he whispered aggressively. “Git away!”
The pig stayed put, head lobbing violently back and forth. It rose up on its hind hooves and slammed down, spraying up mud and grass. Terrified, Grover slithered along the edge of the house, then darted off toward the gates, trying not to skid on the slick grass.
The pig squealed and pursued, its weight thudding against the earth; Grover could feel the ground vibrating beneath his racing feet. He splashed in a patch of sitting water. His feet lost their hold on the ground and came out from under him. He slammed down, water splashing about him, hands breaking his fall and sinking into the muddy earth. The pig was right behind him, clawing at his heels, snorting savagely. Something tore into his Achilles tendon, and he howled in pain. Twisting, he saw the demonic red eyes glowing angrily at him, its snout rising up, baring brown stumps for teeth as it attempted to gnaw him once again.
In a maddened state, Grover crawled toward the gate, glimpsed with utter dread and dismay that the rising fog had traveled no further than the boundary of the wrought-iron fence. He reached the gate, pulled himself up on his knees and yanked it violently.
Locked.
He turned. The pig was there, rising up like a horse, sharp hooves baring down, slicing deeply into his thrashing legs. The animal howled savagely, and Grover cried out as it knocked him to the wet driveway, teeth biting brutally into his wrist. He kicked and flailed, tried to push it away, but couldn’t so much as shift its heaving bulk. The pig released its jaws, rose up, blood dripping from its snout. It came down on Grover again, slamming his waist, the sharp painful explosion of something bursting inside his body paralyzing him. It lunged at his head, rough snout slathering his face wetly as it gnawed crazily into his neck, front hooves pinning his chest, tearing his clothes, teeth digging deep into the thin flesh of his throat, a horrible demented snorting sound rising fiercely in his ears. Grover, gasping for air, managed to jerk an arm free. Dug his nails into the pig’s back, which only inflamed the animal further. He pounded on the pig’s head. It released its death grip, exposed its teeth, then lunged forward and slammed its heavin
g bulk atop Grover’s head. Blackness consumed the detective as two-hundred pounds of rolling black pig-flesh filled his mouth and nose. He tried to fight the massive weight overwhelming him, but was helpless beneath its brutal influence. He attempted a breath, but found the crushing force of pig flesh on his face to be definitively stifling. His strength waned as darkness filled his deprived brain. His thoughts and knowledge escaped his mind as permanent damage set in. His debilitated thrashing waned. His eyesight went black like an enfolding veil, and he fell silent and still, surrendering to the terror-filled night.
THIRTY-FOUR
Within the highest point of the house, Allieb stirred from his slumber.
He smiled, growling with sinister pleasure.
THIRTY-FIVE
Intemperate sheets of rain swept against Bev’s face as he stood in the center of the empty parking lot; the deluge, caught in the wind’s hazy grasp, dulled the world to a starkly gray tone. Hand cupped around his eyes, he gazed toward a clutter of elms alongside St. Michael’s Church, their shivering branches casting weak-rooted leaves across the blacktop like falling treasures through bursting fingers.
Muscles aching, he gazed at Rebecca, then grasped her hand and loafed forward onto a cement path leading toward what he hoped would be his salvation. He gazed at the intimidating structure, wondering if he’d be greeted with further agonies, or sanctification. This uncertainty brought about a queasiness in him, lungs clutching for air in quickened bursts. His heart and mind soared with suspicions of imminent panic and emergency.
In an effort to calm himself, he gently pressed a hand to his chest, held his breath, then lurched towards the church, pulling Rebecca along, feeling weak and somewhat vague, as though he were in a strange, sodden dream. No, Bev, your dreams are forged of fire and of sulfur, of demons and the demoralization and destruction of those you love.
That’s no dream. That’s the real world.
A hard wind blasted in, carrying the rain to a slant. He climbed the church steps and pulled open the large oak doors. Instantaneously, his nausea developed into downright giddy sickness. He gagged. Shrank back, afraid to enter, sucking in his breaths powerfully, attempting to gain control of his galloping breaths. A pressure at once filled his head in that area where the scratch-scratch-scratch had once flourished, as if the infamous ghostly fingers within had finally broken free with a duty to explore the other side of his skull with drawn curiosity.
He dropped to one knee. Grasped his temples.
“Bev?” Rebecca asked, holding his hand tightly. “What’s wrong?”
Ignoring her, he gritted his teeth, mentally forcing the hole in his mind closed, seemingly shutting the fingers in.
Isn’t a house of worship supposed to be welcoming? Its imaginary arms open wide at any hour to embrace all those sinners in need of a temporary messiah?
He stood on shaky feet. Silently staggered across the threshold, into the church’s vestibule. He straightened, taking deep breaths, mentally willing away the horrid wooziness attempting to take him back down.
“Bev...what is it?”
“Let me be for a minute,” he whispered painfully.
He stared about the vestibule; at the bulletin board with its churchly activity announcements; the threadbare rug and pinewood architecture. Once his eyes adjusted to the warmer interior, the dizziness faded, and he wiped the wetness from his face and stared forward, into the church itself.
A gray marble, holy water basin came into view at the entrance to the nave. Bev shivered, cold fear and nervous denial straining him. With unfamiliar trepidation, he walked to the small marble bath and forced his fingers into the lukewarm water. His heart pounded. His hand trembled.
And then, it burned.
In pain, he quickly plucked his hand out of the seemingly scalding water. He gazed curiously at his fingers. Reddened. Lightly blistered. He gritted his teeth, then caught his escaping breath and crossed himself.
Nausea returned to him like a palpable force. He shivered with unexplainable disgust and derision. A harsh burning sensation surfaced on his brow, as though someone had snuffed a cigarette out on his forehead.
“Bev! Jesus, your forehead! It’s...its turned bright red. It looks like it’s burnt.”
Dismayed, he pinched his lips and looked away, feeling confused and embarrassed and frightened. He advanced away from her, into the church, fists clenched nervously at his sides. Trying to ignore the throb of pain on his head, he gazed at the surfeit of gothic architecture surrounding him. The columnar supports, vaulted ceilings, arched doorways, all seemingly constructed as a reflection of the heavens. Above, dome-shaped fixtures cast ghostly yellow auras across the ranks of pews, leading beyond the sanctuary, to the altar.
Shrouded in shadows, the altar was a shrine of blessed figures and religious statuary, molded from porcelain and painted with the finest hand. Gracing the wall behind the altar hung a great crucifix, twelve feet high, intricately carved in wood, extraordinarily detailed. Gazing upon it, Bev could feel the pain carved and painted upon the face of the crucified Jesus: the thorned head; tortured eyes in search of the heavens; mouth contorted passionately. I share your agony.
Rebecca came alongside him and grabbed his hand. Together, they paced down the center aisle, their wet footfalls squeaking hollowly throughout the empty church. Bev ran his free hand along the wooden pews, keeping his eyes pinned to the wooden Jesus, to its heavenward gaze and bloody wounds, to its straining, sinewed muscles and tattered loincloth.
Like magic, a row of candles at the front of the altar came alive.
Bev and Rebecca halted. They looked haphazardly into the nearby pews, then glanced back to the nave. Saw nothing.
Bev riveted his sights back upon the crucifix and the dozen burning candles.
Out of the shroud of darkness on the altar, a figure appeared.
A sudden gust of wind gripped the outside door—which had been left open—and slammed it shut. The jarring noise and Rebecca’s resulting wail reverberated around the church like a pair of warring souls.
“Are you all right?” the man said.
Bev blew out a breath full of anxiety, his heart settling like a surfacing balloon.
Father Thomas Danto.
The priest leaned down, toyed with a knob on the candle basin that lowered the flames, then made his approach, head thrust forth, shoulders hunched.
Watching him, Bev released a plaintive sigh. “Father...”
“Bevant Mathers. I’ve been expecting you. Come with me. We have much to discuss.”
THIRTY-SIX
Slowly and deliberately, the limo coursed the dark roads of Hollywood Hills, rain pelting the windows like strewn needles. The wipers, slapping incessantly, barely cleared the view of the driving storm. Wincing, the man lifted his left leg over his right, then peered at the LED clock on the limo’s back dash. 7:58 PM. He sat erect, staring out the tinted windows at the passing houses, praying openly in his mind without fear of being heard.
I have been communicating with the thirteenth, you know.
He grew restless as the limo braked and slowed, oncoming traffic splashing jarring swells against it. Lightning flashed above, igniting the premature night every twenty seconds. Perfect conditions for Legion, the man thought. More odds stacked against us.
He closed his eyes and sighed. Thought of what lay of ahead.
And, at the same time, once again, recalled the past...
~ * ~
He opened the door. Standing on the porch was a man in his thirties. He wore a gray windbreaker, and pea cap.
The man nodded once.
“Father Danto. Thank you for coming. Please, come in.” He stepped aside, allowing the priest entry into his home.
The priest carried a worn canvas bag, which he placed at his feet. The two men stared at each other for a moment, having only once spoken on the phone. Their gazes meshed as magnetic opposites, one laden with grief and desperation, the other, intelligence and understanding.
From somewhere above, or below, horrid wails arose: the voice of the boy, rattling the house’s windows. The lights flickered; a stench of sewage blew in from the vents.
“He knows you’re here,” Thornton said, clutching his cheek nervously.
Danto nodded, eyes searching the room. He cocked an ear, perceiving something...something familiar. Intimate. “Give me a few short moments to prepare,” he requested, senses still assessing the environment.
“Of course,” Thornton said.
“The bathroom, please,” Danto said.
Thornton showed the way, across the living room. The priest glanced down as he paced across the stained carpet. He entered the bathroom, shutting the door behind. Silence dominated from within. Thornton still wondered how the priest knew of Allieb, his phone call yesterday coming so suddenly, and unexpectedly. A gift from God, he could only presume, asking no immediate questions of the holy man. In minutes, Danto emerged from the bathroom, donned in a black robe, brown wooden rosaries, and a silver cross. He handed a worn Bible to Thornton.
“You say he is your son?”
Thornton nodded. “Adopted.”
“From Israel...”
“Yes, that is correct—”
“And he goes by the name of Allieb.”
This repeat discussion from yesterday drew heavily on Thornton’s curiosity. “How do you know of this?”
Danto peered around the room, a glint of intensity in his eyes. “I followed him here.” He gazed knowingly at the basement door. “Let us begin right away.”
The priest stepped aside, allowing Thornton to lead the way. The minister, hesitant and staring at first, swallowed hard and ushered the priest to the triple-bolted steel door. As he unlocked the deadbolts, he remarked, “He killed my wife.”
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